


like fire and powder

by apolliades



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Crushes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rescue, Romantic Tension, Self-Harm, on d'artagnan's part at least, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Athos lets his head fall back, baring his throat. </i><br/><i>“Do it. Do it. Kill me or leave me here to do it myself.”</i><br/> <br/>athos has a habit of destroying himself in every way he can.</p><p>set during "commodities", after d'artagnan pulls athos out of the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like fire and powder

**Author's Note:**

> title from romeo and juliet.
> 
> trigger warnings for self harm, suicidal ideation, semi-graphic description of wounds, and alcohol abuse, which really just comes with athos being athos.

  _These violent delights have violent ends_  
_And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,  
__Which, as they kiss, consume._

_\- Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 Scene 6_

 

* * *

 

  _Athos lets his head fall back, baring his throat._

  _“Do it. Do it. Kill me or leave me here to do it myself.”_

  _She leaves. He closes his eyes, waits for the smoke to suffocate him, to fill up his lungs._

  _Faintly, his name, urgent footsteps._

  _“It’s me, it’s d’Artagnan.”_

  _Being half carried half dragged outside; cold water on his face, forced into his mouth._

 

_“What do I do now?”_

 

* * *

 

His body is heavy, weighed down by the wine in his veins and the black hole in his heart. Even as d’Artagnan swears with effort as he hauls him onto his horse Athos cannot make himself move. D’Artagnan climbs up behind him and Athos falls back against his chest. 

D’Artagnan takes them back to his room. In the dark he doesn’t trust himself to find Athos’ lodgings, and he doesn’t trust Athos to be alone, either.

He threads his arm around Athos’ middle, murmurs to him softly to pull himself together, help him out a little, just find his feet til they get up the stairs. They manage, d’Artagnan muttering curses under his breath the whole way until at last he lets Athos fall with a thud onto his bed, slouching against the wall. He’s conscious, but barely, dipping in and out of lucidity. 

“Here, drink. You need it,” d’Artagnan tells him, holding out a flask of water. When Athos doesn’t so much as move in response d’Artagnan takes his chin in his hand and forces the water into his throat. He splutters and swallows and it helps, a little, but it’s like one breath of oxygen when he’s drowning in an entire ocean. 

“You can sleep here, tonight,” d’Artagnan is shrugging out of his jacket, kicking off his boots. His face is steely, tight, trying to keep his worry inside, his fear shut away. Down to his trousers and shirt, d’Artagnan turns back to Athos, who hasn’t moved an inch. He looks like a corpse on the bed, face ashen and streaked with soot, hair awry, eyes heavy hooded, blinking slowly. 

“What, are you going to sleep in your boots?” d’Artagnan chides him gently, and it takes almost more will than he has to keep his voice so light, to keep it from cracking. Athos has had his dark spells before; Aramis and Porthos have mentioned it quietly, and once or twice d’Artagnan has stayed late enough at the tavern to catch the two of them scooping up a maudlin Athos from his chair and coaxing him home. But this is different. Athos has been practically catatonic since d’Artagnan got him onto his horse; his eyes have been dead, his mouth still. D’Artagnan doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to help.

“Constance will kill me if you get mud on the sheets,” he says softly, meaning to say it as a joke but, when it came to it, unable to muster the energy. “Come on, let me help you.” 

 Athos remains still while d’Artagnan crouches in front of him and tugs off his boots, but at least he’s looking at him now, soft grey-green eyes glassy and unfocused, but fixed on d’Artagnan, following him as he moves. 

 It isn’t until d’Artagnan reaches to undo Athos’ jacket and push it off his shoulders that Athos moves. He lurches forwards suddenly, his fingers gripping tight around d’Artagnan’s wrist, halting him. D’Artagnan blinks at him in surprise.

“D’Artagnan, no,” Athos breathes, voice rough but firm. D’Artagnan frowns.

“What are you talking about, Athos? You can’t stay in your clothes, they’re filthy.” D’Artagnan shrugs off his grip without too much trouble, Athos’ strength mostly gone. He slumps further back against the wall, letting his head tip back to rest on the plaster. 

“Please,” he murmurs, eyes cast upwards, “Don’t.”

D’Artagnan ignores him. “You’re being ridiculous, Athos,” he says as he undoes the buttons on Athos’ jacket, unbuckles his belts and places his weapons on the floor beside the bed. He’s talking total shit and he knows it, but he can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t keep quiet because every moment of silence between them is stifling, terrifying.

“It’s not as if we haven’t all seen each other in less-” he continues, until his words die in his mouth has he tugs Athos’ unwilling arms out of his jacket sleeves. His breath catches in his throat, panic bursting like a lit match into his stomach, and he tears the jacket from Athos’ body, letting it drop to the floor. The left sleeve of Athos’ shirt is coated in blood, dark as wine. D’Artagnan catches a pained noise sound in Athos’ throat. It’s his blood.

“You’re hurt,” d’Artagnan gasps, his shaking hands flying to tear Athos’ sleeve open, “Was it her? Your wife? Did she hurt you? Did she-”

Again, his words are stolen from him. His stomach lurches - he’s seen his share of blood and gore, not only alongside the musketeers, but this - this -

Athos’ arm is split open by tear after tear, deep, angry gashes, the few gaps of uncut skin coated in thick, coagulated blood. D’Artagnan knows as soon as he sees that nobody else did this, nobody else could have done. He forces his gaze away, feeling sick, shaken. Athos has his eyes shut, the lines of his forehead tight, his breathing hard and shallow. D’Artagnan can’t bring himself to ask, but then, he doesn’t really need to.

“I should get Aramis,” he manages after a moment, his mouth dry, “These could need stitching. I- I can’t tell,” he has to fight to keep his voice steady. This isn’t something he’s ever had to deal with before, and his head is spinning.

“Aramis doesn’t need to know,” Athos murmurs, opening his eyes a crack to fix d’Artagnan with a hard stare, a façade of coldness barely masking the shame he feels.

D’Artagnan bites his tongue, uncertain. He can do a half decent job of bandaging a wound, but he has no skill in stitching, or warding off infection. But even as he’s hesitating Athos’ blood is spilling over his fingertips, warm and viscous, and Athos is growing paler by the second. 

“Alright,” d’Artagnan concedes, and he can practically feel the tension fall from Athos’ shoulders, “I’ll clean and bind the wounds, but you should see a doctor. You could get an infection.” He stands, crosses the room to fetch the basin and jug of water from his table. “I don’t have any bandages - I’m going to have to use your shirt.” 

Athos waves a hand in dismissal, and murmurs, “It’s ruined anyway.” Now that the threat of the others finding out about his habit of tearing open his skin with his main-gauche has passed Athos has started to sink back into dipping in and out of full consciousness. D’Artagnan knows, but Athos trusts him - and, he supposes, it has been inevitable that he’d find out since he dragged Athos out of the fire, since Athos confessed almost everything to him, knelt on the grass outside of his burning manor. The wine in his stomach helps to stave off the regret of being so honest, so open; the regret of d’Artagnan finding him at all.

Athos has intended to die several times in his life, and has faced that inevitability at the hands of others as many times as at his own. And yet every time, it seems, something - someone - gets in the way.

He half watches, vision blurry, as d’Artagnan tears up his shirt, first tossing a handful of blood sodden fabric to the side before pulling the hem of his shirt out of his trousers and ripping off long thin strips to use as bandages. Athos barely feels anything that’s happening - d’Artagnan seems far away, despite being right beside him, on his knees, soaking a rag in water before using it to sluice as much blood from Athos’ wounds as he can. It stings a little as d’Artagnan wraps his makeshift bandages tightly around his arm, stemming the flow of blood. His fingers aren’t as skilled or as nimble as Aramis’ are, and his skin is has the roughness of a farm boy, of a soldier - but d’Artagnan's touch is gentle, careful not to do any more harm to Athos’ poor flesh than it has already suffered. As he works, d’Artagnan bites his tongue and pretends not to notice the healed white scars criss-crossing Athos’ skin beneath the new wounds.

When he has tied off the last knot d’Artagnan bows his head for a moment, taking Athos’ left hand in both of his, studying his knuckles, the sinews under his grimy skin. He needs that moment, to steady himself, gather his composure, force everything he’s feeling down, storing his tumultuous emotions away neatly to deal with another time. Or never - never would probably be preferable.

Then he lifts his head and looks back up at Athos, his face painted with something - searching. For what? Answers? Approval? Forgiveness? 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says slowly, his voice giving away a rare trace of uncertainty, “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan gives him a quick, terse smile, and says nothing. Something in his face makes Athos feel cold.

“I’ve imposed upon you enough,” he says as d’Artagnan turns away to empty the basin, his voice suddenly clearer, determined, “I should go.” 

As soon as he tries to move, tries to ease himself up off the bed d’Artagnan is there, firm hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down and holding him there.

“You just attempted to take your life, do you really think I’m going to let you out of my sight?” d’Artagnan snaps, and his voice comes out sharper than he had expected or intended, taking them both by surprise. Athos closes his right hand around d’Artagnan’s wrist defensively, and d’Artagnan drops his head, breathing out slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet, sincere. Athos lets go of him, and in turn d’Artagnan does too, and sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. “You frightened me, Athos. I can’t leave you alone, not right now,” he looks up at his friend, his eyes prickling with involuntary tears. He fights them, fights how overwhelmed he’s feeling. His hand finds the top of Athos’ thigh and rests there.  “Please stay.”

Athos hesitates, then nods, laying his fingers on top of d’Artagnan’s, and though he’s careful not to show it, that small gesture makes d’Artagnan’s heart race. He resists the urge to seek more; he’s suddenly aware of how uncertain Athos must be, of how much trust he’s had to put into d’Artagnan by spilling his past. And d’Artagnan realises that by pulling back Athos’ sleeve when he begged him not to he may already have broken that trust. He curses himself internally, and thanks him - then stands.

“Have the bed,” he tells Athos, crossing the room, “I’ll take the chair.”

Athos raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t have the energy to protest. He moves to strip off what remains of his shirt, but makes an involuntary grunt of pain as he tries to lift his arms over his head, and falls back, breathless. His lungs still ache from the smoke he’d inhaled, more than he’d realised. His ribs throb, too, no doubt from when Milady sidestepped him earlier and sent him crashing into a doorframe - and his head, god, his head. He can’t even muster the energy to press his fingers to his temples in an effort to ease the pain, and instead just shuts his eyes and slumps there, huffing laboured breaths, too exhausted to be embarrassed. He lets himself slide down the wall; he wants to sleep. Needs to sleep. Needs the world to disappear. 

And then d’Artagnan is by his side again - of course, of course he is - shushing his groans of pain with soft kind words as if he’s a frightened wounded animal. 

“Shh, easy,” d’Artagnan murmurs, hitching him up a little from where he lies to drag his shirt over his head, “Let me help.”

Athos lies still and lets him. 

By the time d’Artagnan is done and has Athos undressed to his underclothes he’s barely conscious anymore, his vision shifting between blurriness and focus. Curled up on his side - d’Artagnan had urged him to, to keep him from choking should he vomit in the night - he watches the boy cross in and out of his view as he undresses and does.. whatever he’s doing, his footsteps intentionally soft. A lonely and very drunk part of his brain - a part that longs not to be alone, a part that he has always kept quiet - imagines reaching out for him, catching his hand, pulling him down to lie in the bed alongside him.

Athos’ outstretched fingers brush d’Artagnan’s thigh as he passes the bed. D’Artagnan comes to a halt.

“What do you need?” 

“Lie with me,” Athos murmurs, his voice far away, in a dream. D’Artagnan chokes on his breath, taken aback. “Chastely,” Athos clarifies, curling his fingers and withdrawing his hand back, “just, please. I’m tired of being alone. I can’t stand it,” with each word his voice grows rougher, the lump in his throat grows thicker, harder to swallow. 

Wordless, d’Artagnan crosses to the other side of the bed. For a moment he’s shy, hesitant to just get into the bed and lie down beside Athos. His heart is beating faster than he’s entirely happy about, and he has to take a few minutes to just sit there and force himself to be calm. This is _Athos_ , and all he asked for was comfort, someone to be with him, make him feel safe. D’Artagnan knows how hard that must be for Athos to ask for - he knows he’d never do it were he not inebriated beyond all sense and reason. He may not have known him for long but d’Artagnan knows Athos’ character well enough - private, secretive, aloof. Never sharing anything he doesn’t absolutely have to. And he wants to give Athos what he needs, wants to make him feel warm, safe, secure, even if it’s only for a night. 

But it’s not just Athos he’s worried about, and he knows it. At some point not long after they first met - he isn’t quite sure when, exactly, but he remembers Athos, moments after escaping execution, giving him a hint of a smile that made his heart burst - d’Artagnan fell headlong into a whirlwind of a crush on the man. He’d thought at first that it was just him longing for approval, to be accepted by Athos, the most stoic of the three inseparable musketeers d’Artagnan had found himself becoming entangled with. But he’d quickly realised that his feelings went above and beyond that when he caught himself watching Athos during training and focusing less on his moves and more on… him, watching the way his body moves, his steps quick and precise but yet still with a certain fluidity that allows him to dodge and weave and use his ever so slightly smaller stature to his advantage. 

He’d forced his feelings out of his head, told himself it was a crush, nothing more, an infatuation no doubt borne from his intense feelings of admiration, his desire for Athos’ approval. And he’d been doing fairly well; until tonight, he’d barely thought of Athos in that way for, oh, at least a week. And now here he is, asking d’Artagnan to spend a night beside him, in the same bed, under the same blankets. Already the feelings are creeping back, wrapping around his brain like the vines of some poisonous plant and taking hold. 

But of course he finds himself lying down, stretched out along Athos’ back. Of course he does. How could it go any different? D’Artagnan can’t tell if Athos is awake or not, but he suspects he is, if only just; his chest is rising and falling with shallow, short breaths, neither deep nor steady enough to indicate sleep. Tentatively, breath held, d’Artagnan reaches out to brush Athos’ bare shoulder, unsure if he’s about to cross a boundary by touching him. The feeling of Athos’ skin beneath his fingers stirs feelings in his stomach that he doesn’t dare to dwell on.

To his relief, Athos shifts into his touch, turning just a little to signal that it’s okay, move closer, this is what he needs. Before he can lose his nerve d’Artagnan closes his grip on Athos’ shoulder and shifts forwards, close enough to nose against his throat, and finally releases his held breath into Athos’ skin. He slips his other arm under Athos’ neck so that he’s holding him, loosely, and he feels the last of Athos’ tenseness ebb away, his body relaxing against d’Artagnan’s chest. He can feel Athos’ breath slow and even out as he lets sleep claim him, and d’Artagnan can’t deny that having him there is a comfort for himself as well. At last he can relax a little, allow himself to calm down from the fear and almost overwhelming anxiety that had been fuelling him ever since he rode up to Athos’ manor house to find it in flames. 

He finds himself drifting towards sleep, all at once exhausted from the exertion, both emotional and physical, of the evening. He has no idea what time it is, only that the room is lit by the faint glow of the moon. Not that it matters. What matters, he tells himself as he slips into unconsciousness, is that Athos is here, and he’s _safe_ , and d’Artagnan saved him.

 

* * *

  

In the morning d’Artagnan is surprised to discover that he’s woken first, by warm beams of sunlight spilling through the window. Athos is still there, having barely moved during the night, a safe reassuring warmth against d’Artagnan’s chest. For a few sweet moments he just lies there, adjusting to the light, his nose in Athos’ unruly curls. But the further he comes into wakefulness the more he realises he can’t stay there, can’t let Athos wake up with d’Artagnan still wrapped around him. Partly it’s because d’Artagnan is afraid of his reaction, afraid Athos will shut himself off again when he realises how much of himself he shared that night - but it’s out of respect for Athos as well, out of the knowledge that he’ll need time, alone, to deal with what happened privately and in his own time. D’Artagnan has to respect that. And then there’s also the small fact that Athos is about as foul tempered as they come when he wakes up hungover, and judging by how drunk he was last night, he’s going to have a hell of a headache this morning.

So d’Artagnan slips out from under the blankets, careful not to wake his bedfellow, and dresses as silently as he can. He’s still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that he genuinely did spend the night with _Athos_ in his bed - but in his heart he understands. Athos had needed someone who he could trust, to care for him. And d’Artagnan had filled that role. He’s sure, he tells himself, that Aramis or Porthos would have done just the same had it been one of them.

D’Artagnan pours the last of the water from the jug on the table into a beaker and sets it on the nightstand by the bed, knowing Athos will need it.  He’s half way out of the door when the sound of his name stills his steps, makes him go tense. At first he isn’t sure if his ears are deceiving him, but as he turns, sure enough Athos is there, looking at him, having barely moved except to open his eyes.

“Thank you,” his expression is hard to read, but his voice is quiet and full of meaning. Unable to trust his words d’Artagnan simply bows his head in acknowledgement, feeling his cheeks colour against his will. He moves again to leave, but again Athos prevents him.

“D’Artagnan - the others. They don’t… know,” he doesn’t need to clarify what, “And I’d prefer it if they didn’t find out. You understand.”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan breathes, barely able to get the words out of his mouth, “You have my word.”

Athos smiles, slowly, small and guarded, but a smile, and d’Artagnan feels his heart jump as he leaves the room. Everything will be alright. 

__

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY FOR THE LAME ENDING i just want my sweet babies to be happy
> 
> update: please take a look at these beautiful fanarts profdrlachfinger drew for me .. they're so lovely i could cry ... thank u so much <3 <3 <3 (trigger warning for graphic self harm in the first link)  
> http://profdrlachfinger.deviantart.com/art/Scars-Athos-537275849  
> http://profdrlachfinger.deviantart.com/art/Lie-with-me-Athos-and-d-Artagnan-538152345

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Scars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151314) by [ProfDrLachfinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfDrLachfinger/pseuds/ProfDrLachfinger)
  * [[ART] Lie with me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151434) by [ProfDrLachfinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfDrLachfinger/pseuds/ProfDrLachfinger)




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